


The Beauty of a Secret

by Amberly



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: First Person, Knife Play, M/M, halsey-freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 01:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberly/pseuds/Amberly
Summary: The Golden Boy of the Earthsphere finishes his drink and leaves the room, checking his watch as he goes. There are fifteen minutes until his next meeting. He smirks and ducks into his office and Trowa is already there, settled behind his desk. His long body is spread out, arms behind his head, feet kicked up on the expensive wood. There’s something wolfish about his smile that thrills him, sets Quatre’s pulse racing in a way that reminds him of danger. Of being 15 and dealing death like an Angel.





	The Beauty of a Secret

**Author's Note:**

> This unbeta'd ficlet is part of the Halsey collection, which is linked here! This is my third ficlet based on a Halsey song. The inspiration for this fic is "Strange Love," off Badlands. Please take a look at the Hopeless Kingdom collection and see all the other wonderful work done by claraxbarton, GoodIdeaAtTheTime, and Kangofu_CB. They're truly amazing pieces of work! 
> 
> In this fic, I wanted to accomplish two things. I wanted to challenge myself to write something I don't usually write (in this case, the pairing 3x4), and I wanted to be the change I'd like to see in the world. I wanted to show Quatre and Trowa as having the kind of equality and tension I give to every other pairing I write, and I especially wanted to show Quatre getting the upperhand through sheer strength and skill. Quatre was a pilot too--it was important to me to keep that fact firmly in mind while writing. 
> 
> Hopefully no one is too upset at the ending.

Quatre spends his days in three piece suits and boardrooms. He sips sparkling water while the others sip champagne, or wine. Thinks about whether or not the alcohol really matters, given everything else. There is blood on his hands and a boy in his bed and mostly, he doesn’t care. Doesn’t think God cares either. As if They’d have enough time to check in on him. The Golden Boy of the Earthsphere finishes his drink and leaves the room, checking his watch as he goes. There are fifteen minutes until his next meeting. He smirks and ducks into his office and Trowa is already there, settled behind his desk. His long body is spread out, arms behind his head, feet kicked up on the expensive wood. There’s something wolfish about his smile that thrills him, sets Quatre’s pulse racing in a way that reminds him of danger. Of being 15 and dealing death like an Angel. 

“You are late.” 

“The meeting ran over.” 

“That is not good.” Towa sets both feet on the floor and both hands on the desk. He rises like smoke from a fire, all hot narrowed eyes. Purses his lips as Quatre walks around to him. There’s a foot between them, who knows how many pounds of muscle, but Quatre isn’t concerned. Feels no flicker of fear.  He slips behind Trowa and sits, the leather creaking under him. This close, he can smell the faint scent of Trowa’s aftershave. There’s an exasperated huff and Trowa is turning, one eyebrow perfectly arched. The thin line of his lips quirks just enough to make Quatre’s already wide grin grow wider. He leans back in the chair, crosses one leg over the other. Puts his hands behind his head. Trowa moves fast, has him pinned with one on arm either side of his head, green eyes sparking as he brings their faces close. 

“Do not make me spank you,” he threatens, and Quatre shudders. Trowa is fast but he is faster this one time and he grins as he taps the blade of his knife to Trowa’s pulse. The Russian blinks. Pouts. Draws back and crosses his arms over his chest, hip resting against the desk. 

“You are spending too much time with Duo. It is not good for you.” Trowa’s eyes are hot, they smolder, and Quatre stands and slinks forward, knife still in hand. His lover isn’t wrong. But Quatre’s doing it because he wants this. Because he wants the games--the steady push-pull for control, the constant battle for dominance, and Duo understands what it means to spend a life small, and pretty, a target others mark and wait to take out. He teaches Quatre all his tricks with a dimpled smirk that has him half wishing he could drag him to bed with Trowa. 

“You like it,” Quatre purrs, carefully popping off the last button of his shirt. Trowa’s breath catches like the next one does. Severes rough like a string as Quatre watches him through his lashes. There are two buttons on the floor. Three. Trowa wets his lips and looks at the unlocked office door. 

“They will talk,” he murmurs as the last button falls, the fabric of his silk shirt parting to reveal bronzed skin. Puckers and slashes and a mark just over his heart. It’s a brand, Quatre’s name in Arabic carved into Trowa’s skin. He leans in slowly. Brushes it with his lips as he guides his shirt over his shoulders. 

“Let them.” Quatre doesn’t care. He doesn’t have to say anything. Sidesteps the questions of the press with a grace his acrobat would be proud of, all smiles and guileless blue eyes. He sidesteps it now as well, raising up on tiptoes to tug Trowa’s lower lip with his teeth. His lover whines. Trowa’s hand is in his hair, is gripping his hip tight enough to leave bruises as their mouths come together, slick heat and the taste of cinnamon, of the sparkling water from before, and Quatre moans. He rests a knee on the desk as he bends Trowa back, hands fisting the open sides of his shirt as he brings their hips into contact. The hand on his hip tightens. The hand in his hair is tight, so tight it tugs the roots and Quatre growls as he pins Trowa, brackets his hips with his knees as he runs his nails along the lines of his waist and--

"Mr. Winner,” his secretary calls through the door. “Your 4 o’clock is here.” Trowa’s head falls back against the desk. His eyes are hooded, dark, cheeks flushed. His chest heaves as he pants and Quatre rakes his eyes over him hungrily. Knows he looks almost identical. He climbs back and strokes his hands through his hair, smoothing it back, tucking his shirt back in. Doesn’t even remember Trowa untucking it. He swallows and Trowa stands. Adjusts his suit jacket and pulls his shirt together as best he can. Long fingers brush back his hair as he makes his way to the door, shooting a sideways look at Quatre.

“We are not finished,” Trowa threatens, wagging his finger at him. Quatre’s smile is like a sunrise.

"We never are.” He sits behind his desk and rests his folded hands in his lap, waiting patiently for his Head of Security to let his next appointment in with flushed cheeks and swollen lips.  _ Let them talk,  _ he thinks. They don’t know a single fucking thing.


End file.
